Chapter 28 #2
Mara’s typing stops outside like a radio cut off mid-song. The blinds click in the quiet. Hart’s jaw works once, twice, then relents; it’s the only part of him that betrays annoyance.
“Elena,” he says. “Don’t make me pull rank on you. This isn’t about you and me. It’s about the case.”
“It’s also about me,” I return, evenly. “Because if this is a fishing expedition based on defense gossip, no. If it’s an administrative check-in, I am not your optics problem.”
“You are if the story becomes you,” he says.
I bite down on the first response—something about judges who lecture about impartiality while checking their retirement portfolios.
I bite down on the second—something about patriarchy, and if he’d be speaking like this if a man sat across from him.
I go with the only thing that won’t get me walked out by Security.
“Let me work,” I say. “You’ve seen my memos. You’ve heard my proffers. You put me in front of the magistrate to argue conditions because you knew I’d be precise. You don’t have to like me to trust me.”
“I do like you,” he says. “That’s not the point.”
No. It isn’t.
He closes the top folder. The sound is soft, final.
“Whether or not there’s anything to disclose, the perception is already in play,” he says.
“I can’t control the photographs or the rumors, but I can control our house.
” He lines the edge of the folder with the pad precisely.
“Effective immediately, I’m reassigning you from Conti. ”
The words hit like a door slamming my ass on the way out. Pressure builds in my chest. I blink once because the alternative is smashing my fist into his desk. His face. “To what?” I ask, because I refuse to give him the satisfaction of “You can’t.”
“Violent crime,” he says. “You’ll cover arraignments for two weeks while we redistribute. Then we’ll see.”
“Arraignments,” I repeat. My tongue tastes like metal. “You’re benching me.”
“I’m protecting the case,” he says.
“You’re protecting yourself,” I say, low. “Your office.”
“Same thing,” he says, not flinching. “Elena, this is not a punishment. It’s a step back. Let the heat fade. You’ll still be on your feet in court. You’ll still carry weight.”
I stare at the view over his shoulder because if I look at his face, I will say something that burns it all down. The river glints in the distance; a gull wheels lazily against the pale sky.
The sun ought to at least dim when your life goes sideways; it doesn’t. I pull in air that tastes like old carpet and wood cleaner and try to spit out words that won’t make it worse.
I choose the smallest true thing. “I’ve spent years doing this,” I say. “I came here for this. You built a team for this case around that experience. This isn’t good for the case.”
“You’re not the only lawyer in the district.” He doesn’t gloat; I half-respect that. “We’ll brief Keating, bring in Ferris from Newark to co-chair. You can write. If we need you for witness prep or history, we’ll ask.”
“Ask,” I repeat. I can hear how thin my voice is. I hate it. “Miles, I—” I stop. Don't say: I need this. Don’t say: This is all I am.
Don’t say: I can’t lose this, too.
He watches me realize the edge I’m standing on and continues. “If there’s something else going on,” he says, gentler now. “If you need time, or— El, are you okay?”
The nickname makes a muscle jump in my jaw. Only my mother called me that without consequences. I choose a point on the grain of his desk and fix my eyes there until the urge to punch and cry thins into something manageable.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I’ll do arraignments.”
“Good.” He nods once, slides a sheet across. “Administration needs you to sign this acknowledgment of reassignment.”
There’s a space for my name. The letters look foreign. I pick up his pen because not taking it would be theater, and I don’t have the energy for more drama. My hand stays steady as I sign. The ink sinks into the paper.
He takes the sheet back, clips it atop the folder. “I’ll inform the court. I’ll call Roberto Conti.” His mouth twists around the name. “Keating will get you the briefing book for arraignments. Take the rest of the morning. Clear your desk of the Conti binders. Turn over your notes.”
“Some of those are my personal thought process,” I say automatically. “Deliberative.”
“Anything material to the government’s case goes to the government,” he counters, and we’re both back on professional talk because it’s safer. “If there’s attorney work product you think needs to remain segregated, flag it for me. I’ll review.”
“You’ll redact my mind for me,” I say, and the bitterness is back, ugly and real.
“Elena,” he says, the warning embedded.
I stand. The chair leg squeaks against the carpet, and that tiny vulgar sound satisfies me somehow. I reach down, snag my travel mug by the handle.
He stands too, because optics matter even when not in the public eye. “This doesn’t have to be adversarial,” he says, softening his words like we’re colleagues, like we’re friends. “You can be angry at me. That’s fine. But keep your eyes on the ball.”
“The ball,” I repeat, because if I don’t echo, I will say a different word—baby—and the room will explode. “Right.”
We stare at each other two seconds longer than is merely professional. Then I nod once and turn toward the door.
“Elena,” he says, before I reach the handle.
I stop but don’t turn.
“If there is something,” he says, choosing each word like it’s glass he doesn’t want to break. “Tell me before someone else does.”
My hand tightens around the mug so hard the plastic creaks. “Duly noted,” I say, and walk out.
I drive without remembering any of the turns.
The courthouse and its clean glass edges drop into the rearview like a mirage. The radio’s on a station I don’t recognize, then off because I can’t bear anyone else’s voice.
My phone keeps lighting up in the console with notifications I don’t check—calendar placeholders, an email from Keating with “Arraignments” in the subject line, a text from a number I’ve already saved under a different name because the right one isn’t allowed.
Luca: 7 tonight?
I stare at the bubble until the light times out. I should type yes. I should let the softness from last night soak me again, let it dull the sharp corners of the day. Instead, I thumb out the two words that feel like a mouthful of glass.
Rain check.
Three dots blink. Then: What happened?
I put the phone facedown. The steering wheel is too hot under my palms. The whole world is too loud and too bright, and I can’t make my thoughts line up. My pulse is a staccato, high and fast, like it’s trying to keep up with something.
The next text comes a minute later.
Talk to me.
I type, delete, type again, delete again. Then: Not tonight. I need to sleep.
The screen stays empty. A beat later, my phone rings. The fake name is across the screen in letters that blur. I blink my vision clear and tuck the phone under my thigh until the buzzing stops.
The garage to my building yawns up from the street the way it always does—mouth open, fluorescent bulbs buzzing, concrete damp from some leak no one’s fixed. I pull in and take my spot on the second level by muscle memory. Brake, park, engine off. The sudden quiet isn’t any better than the noise.
I sit there too long, hands slack on my lap, the day replaying in mean little flashes. Hart’s even voice. The anonymous prints. The knowledge that the hallways behind me are already carrying my story forward in whispers.
It isn’t just the case. It’s the credibility that gets you a nod in chambers, the benefit of the doubt in a sidebar, the silent respect that greases everything. I’ve spent years building it brick by brick. One rumor and a transfer slip, and the mortar is suddenly wet again.
A true rumor, and I have no one to blame but myself.
The phone rings a second time. I don’t pick up. I text instead: I’m home. I’m okay. Please. Not tonight.
The dots dance, then stop. Nothing.
I pull my bag onto my shoulder, open the door, and step into the echoing garage. It smells like gasoline and mustiness. Somewhere, a fan rattles. My heels click against concrete and make me feel exposed.
I head toward the elevator bay, hugging the wall out of habit, keys threaded through my fingers even though I’m not sure that trick ever helped anyone. The fluorescent light nearest the elevator flickers like a strobe. On, off, on.
A car engine turns over behind me. Normal. People come home. People leave. I don’t look. I press the elevator button and watch the red circle light up. The car behind me revs. Louder. Closer. The hairs at the back of my neck lift.
Don’t be dramatic, I tell myself. The garage is a horror movie set because fluorescent lighting is a war crime. Not because you’re in danger.
The sound swells. Tires squeal on concrete. I turn.
Headlights swing like a lighthouse arc and then zero in. On me. A white glare blanks my vision. The engine roars. The car is coming too fast, hood dipping with the acceleration, pointed at me.
I will my body to move, but it’s too slow.
Somewhere far away, my brain starts cataloging details: a dark grille, a dent in the front right fender, a harsh, grinding sound. Here, my muscles lock, useless. The elevator dings behind me like a joke.
“Elena!” a voice snaps, close and urgent. A hand clamps around my upper arm, iron-strong, and yanks. My heels skid, catch, my shoulder screams, and then my body is slammed sideways into a pillar hard enough to knock the breath out of me.
The car slices through the space I occupied half a second ago, wind and heat pushing past. Brakes shriek too late as it fishtails, clips the metal guard at the ramp, and barrels down to the next level, tail lights red and disappearing.
For a second, there’s only the ringing in my ears and the smell of hot rubber. I taste metal. My shoulder throbs under a hand that is still on me, steadying, pinning me to safety.
“Elena,” the voice says again, lower now. “Hey. Breathe.”
I haul air in. It burns. My eyes focus. Nico stands in front of me, close enough that I can see the dark stubble shadowing his jaw, the set of his mouth, the burn in his eyes trained down the ramp where the car vanished.
His palm is flat against the pillar by my head; his other hand is still wrapped around my arm.
“Nico,” I manage, and my voice comes out thin. “What—?”
“You okay?” He doesn’t look at me yet. He’s listening to the garage: the direction of the engine, the echo of tires, the ding of the elevator, anything that might signal another threat. Only when he decides we have a few seconds does he angle toward me. “Elena. Are you all right?”
“I—” My knees try to give; his hand tightens before they can. “Yes. I think so.” I swallow, force my lungs to behave. “What the hell was—”
“Not an accident,” he says, clipped. His gaze flicks over me, fast and thorough. Face, throat, shoulder, ribs, legs. As if cataloging everything. “We have to move. Now.”
He’s already hauling me toward the nearest row. His grip is iron around my arm, not painful, just uncompromising.
“My car—” I start, stupidly.
“Forget your car.” He cuts us between bumpers, head on a swivel, scanning shadows, ramps, mirrors. “Eyes up.”
We jog along the concrete wall, my shoulder throbbing where he yanked me, my other shoulder throbbing where I slammed into the pillar. Somewhere below, a horn blares and fades. He fishes a key fob from his pocket; a dark sedan two spaces ahead blinks alive.
“Get in,” he says.
He opens the passenger door, shoves my bag after me, and I fold into the seat before my brain can think of an argument.
He’s around the hood in a blink. Driver’s door, engine, reverse, a smooth, fast arc that has us pointed toward the exit before I’ve found the seat belt.
He reaches across, buckles me without looking, then guns it.
We shoot past the pillar I was pinned against moments ago. I see the smear of tire on concrete where the other car fishtailed and swallow hard.
Nico’s jaw is set, hands steady on the wheel. “Breathe,” he says, eyes on the ramp as we climb. “I’ve got you.”
“Are you hurt anywhere?”
“Umm, my-my shoulder,” I say. “It’s not bad, though. Just a bit sore.”
“Any pain that’s not your shoulder?”
“My pride,” I say, and the joke feels wrong. “My— I’m fine.” I put a hand over my stomach without thinking. “I’m fine.”
His eyes drop, noticing the gesture, and heat flares in them. Anger at the car? At me for not moving faster?
“How did you— Were you just here?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says and doesn’t elaborate.
We hit daylight at the mouth of the garage and burst onto the street, the city swallowing us whole.